Pretty Vacant
by TotemundTabu
Summary: FRUK - Francis/Punk!Arthur - Oneshot dedicated to Lilithk - Arthur's green eyes became glum. Green, like ivy holding onto a dream. All or Nothing. And he won Nothing. Like every time before. And the funny thing is there was no one else to blame.


Notes: This oneshot is for Lilithk ;w; Happy FRUKIN' B-day UwU Francis/Punk!Arthur.

**Pretty Vacant**

Arthur's skin smelled like smoke and cheap alcohol. He was biting his lips, nervously, the bottom one was clearly starting to bleeding, staining the cigarette.

Sit at the table, with the attitude and the expression of someone who had more anger than blood in the veins. Also, he gave a disgusted and annoyed look to Alfred, who was jumping like an idiot.

Alfred was the stupid friend, we all have one, who, when drunk, starts pogoing like a spring, crashing against every surface within a 5 km radius. Singing, loudly.

"Bloody Jesus Christ, Al! - he shouted - There is a reason why you are not the singer."

Arthur grabbed his friend for the scruff of the neck and made him sit down at the table again.

Kiku laughed shyly, with an hand in front of the mouth, "You take good care of him."

"I'd cut off his legs, if I could.", Arthur replied, bluntly.

"Hey! - Alfred complained, hight-pitched for the beer - Where is Mattie?"

They looked around the pub, quickly.

"...apparently, we lost him. Again.", commented Kiku.

Arthur gave an hoarse sigh, "Really, why do we always end up losing him?"

Alfred decided to cooperate, screaming, "Maaaattie! Mattieee!"

"Shut up! - Arthur stood up - I'll go searching him. Kiku, since you are staying sober, look after the human cataclysm, please."

The Japanese boy imitated a salute, then gave to Alfred a tender look.

"You really should stop making us worry, it's unfair..."

Alfred groaned and pouted.

Arthur started pushing his way through the place, looking for his friend, cursing and hoping things to find him soon. In his minded, started to play one of those TV show episodes in which the crowd becomes blur and greenish as the character walks in it.

Maybe he really drank a little too much.

He heard a groan and then a strange, burning, knock on the shoulder.

"Oh, sorry!", a man asked.

His accent was strange: soft, weak, languid, warm.

His hair was long, at the shoulders, and blond. A real, golden, blond, not like those dirty-honey-ashes-mess blond he had. And a manly chin, large shoulders, a long neck.

Arthur loved long necks.

And hated beautiful people. All of them.

The man frowned, then, looking at him, asked, "Are you okay? Do you have a ...mh, - he started to point, drawing a circle in the air, the eyebrows - Stuck here."

Arthur needed a second to understand the man was asking about his safety pin piercing at the left eyebrow.

"Yes, asshat. It's voluntary."

The man suffocated a little laugh,then smiled, like he was in front of a kid.

"What the hell do you want!", Arthur yelled.

"Nothing, nothing, _petit_. - he swore - It suits you."

"Go to hell, seriously."

The man seemed even more amused and Arthur felt like annoyance and beer mixed in his head, twirling, twisting and dancing tango.

Maybe the lights were just too low. Maybe there was just too much noise.

"Are you searching for something?"

"My... our drummer."

"Drummer? - he blinked, then something seemed to cross his mind - Oh sure! You are the singer of that group that played before... that... song. - his voice ended in a whisper - Mh, yeah, drummer, let me think: blond, around 178 centimetres?"

Arthur grimaced in bafflement, "Centimetres?"

"Oh... - the man gave an hopeless sigh - ...mh, let's say, tall, blond, curly hair, shabby sloppy clothes?"

"Who the hell are you: the duchess of other's people fucking business?"

"I am trying to help you."

"Thanks for nothing, then!", he yelled again and his stomach felt contract and hard.

And then he puked.

He curled up, on his knees, and vomited more than what they both thought a human stomach was able to contain. Then he stood up, looked directly in the other man's eyes and, staggering, tried to reply.

But he puked again.

The long-haired blond Ken was completely speechless. He considered going away, but then, looking at that little boy, too skinny to be real, all crouching, he knew he was not able to leave him in that state.

"Come here.", he said, with that too smooth accent, bringing him in the toilet.

Arthur protested, moaning roughly, but the man ignored him and started to wash his face, with cold icy water. His hands were strong but strangely delicate, like he was trying not to over-squeeze.

"Exactly... - asked the man - How much did you drink?"

"I hope your ass will be fucked by a whole lifetime supply of nails."

He gave a deep sigh, as Arthur puked again.

"A motherfuckin' princess..."

"I hear... - his eyesight was failing him - I will never drink again."

"I have the sensation you say this often..."

Arthur glared at him, with an annoyed grimace.

"Fuck you."

"Very rude from you, considering I am trying to help you."

He smiled, with a sort of sad, false expression.

Arthur looked at those eyes with despise, and a mixed sensation of heat and annoyance. Those eyes were deep, scorching.

Cyan.

Cyanide.

The man smiled, then with the hand cleaned Arthur's mouth. Softly. Lingering on those dark, dry lips.

Arthur drank a little from his hand, then felt the chilly shiver of the cold, moist hand on his cheek, while the man brought him against his mouth, kissing him.

He tasted like salt and smelled like cologne.

The skin on his hands was rough and his fingertips honeyed.

* * *

Arthur yawned, ruffling his own hair.

He stretched, like a cat. He felt his body heavy with the thick air of the morning.

His green eyes looked outside the big window near his bed.

The blankets were irritatingly warm, a deep, ungraceful, scent of skin was everywhere.

As Arthur sat, he saw the bluish white layer of snow outside. Some taxi roared, while the fog wrapped the sky.

It was dark and cold, outside.

Too hot inside.

A voice and a warm cup near his face drew his glance.

The man near him smiled, "I guessed you like tea."

"You guessed right.", Arthur commented, bluntly.

The singer tasted the tea. It was perfect. Earl Gray, two spoons of sugar, with a spot of milk.

That was creepy.

"How do you...?"

"Intuition. - he sipped a little from a mug full of coffee - I work in a café, so I am kind of good to imagine what people like."

Arthur was still deadly glaring at him in menace.

"_Quand il veut, le diable fait tout bien_... - he laughed - Also, I thought every English man worthy of the name loves tea."

"...are you kidding me?"

"Should I? - he grinned - I swear it was not my intention, even if you are funny to tease."

"What's your name?", Arthur asked, cutting it shortly.

"François. - he replied, his soft accent getting warmer - But you can call me Francis."

"Francis..." , the Londoner repeated the name, tasting it against the palate.

"And you are?"

"Arthur."

"Oh. - he smirked - _Arthur_."

His tongue curled, twirling his name. He never thought about how sexual a sound could have been.

That mouth was dangerous.

That warmth was too good.

"I hate how French sounds."

"It didn't seem tonight."

Arthur stiffened, feeling hit, and noticing all of sudden he was naked.

"It was an impression.", he mumbled, searching for his slips.

Francis gave a sigh, "Drink your tea, also it's your apartment, so you can't run away. If you want, I will patter out when you are in the shower and you can pretend to be offended and disappointed."

This said, he stood up.

Arthur didn't reply, sipping his milk tea.

He wasn't exactly good with words.

Okay, he was a pure disaster with words.

Almost like...

"Oh Bloody Jesus, Al!", he stood up and his tea fell all over the bed and his left leg, making him curse harder.

Francis blinked, confused, "What... happened?"

"I left the bar with you! Alfred, Matthew! Oh Kiku is too skinny and shortie and cute and he can't handle too drunk idiots and Matthew get really mean when he's drunk, I swear they..."

"Which of those is your boyfriend?", he chuckled, almost sad.

"Ah... no, see, I... - no, wait, why seeming pathetic? - Al."

"_Oh_. - he shrugged his shoulders, like he didn't care - Don't worry, I'll be as silent as a grave."

Arthur felt mute. And stupid.

That man seemed really a mix of blasé and vacant. Probably he didn't even had a soul, but that stupid French accent made him seem like a poet.

"So. - he took a photograph in his hands - Which one is?"

Arthur flicked, "None of your business!", and tried to take the photo back, but Francis was still looking at it.

"Mhh... let me guess: curly hair?"

"No! - he pouted, rescuing the photograph - And it's none of your fucking business, I dare to repeat."

"C'mon, _Arthur_. We had a nice night, isn't it? And what's more intimate than sex?"  
"For being someone who just had a one-night-stand you are really chatty."

Francis lowered his head, embittered, and started to bite his cheek.

Arthur gave a sigh, lying again, the blonde one with blue eyes.

"He seems nice."

"He is."

* * *

"So?! - Alfred shouted - Where did you go last night? We looked for you for a looot of time. Now, I don't know how much but a lot. For sure!"

Kiku gave a sigh, "It's not a problem, but you should really tell us next time. We were worried."

"I was just with someone, calm down."

Alfred and Kiku looked at each other, surprised.

"Someone?", they repeated, almost in the same moment, blinking.

Matthew smiled, "Oh, and who was?"

"Nobody important..."

Alfred rolled his eyes to the ceiling, "In other words, you acted like the pervert you are."

"I am not a pervert."

"Sure, your porn folder on the PC is Canada-sized."

"Could you not involve my native country in this discussion?"

Kiku was still curious, "Still, it's not like you: I would say you are rather... solitary."

Euphemistically speaking.

And said by Kiku, famous to be more interested in 2D stuff, then sounded sharper.

"It was just a night. Don't overwork with fantasy."

"But that's the fun part...", complained Alfred.

Kiku groaned quietly, "Anyway, next time, please, restrain from disappearing without telling us."

"Yes, sure, I..."

He saw him.

Handsome, poisonously perfect, smiling at the bar.

Matthew smiled, understanding, and Kiku nodded. Alfred simply didn't notice at all.

Arthur lowered his eyes, biting his lips. And song, his favourite, came into his mind.

_Don't know what I want, but I know how to get it._

Francis looked at him back, smiling briefly, then getting a dark grin, as he saw Alfred too. He seemed utterly defeated and disappointed.

He showed his glass, like in a toast, then drank it quickly.

Arthur shook his head, probably that man was drinking some French wine in a London pub. And that accent.

It was... nauseating.

And beautiful.

_Arthur._

He wanted him. Again.

Argh, he felt so stupid! Why did he tell him he was with Alfred? Also... Alfred? Seriously. But a lot of people thought they were together, even Kiku for a while, but to Arthur Al was more like... no, it sounded pathetic... okay, best friend, okay? Pathetic. Childish. But that. Or a little brother. Or both.

But, umh, not a lover.

But he didn't want to seem... sadly single. He wanted to seem. Argh.

He was just an idiot.

He stood up and went closer to him, trying to seem the more loose and self-confident as possible, without managing it, then used his best nervous smile and tried.

"Hey."

"Hey. - Francis smiled, he was really drinking a foreigner wine - How is my favourite singer?"

"...fine. - he coughed - And you?"

"I have a glassful of a Bordeaux and the the night is still long and unpredictable."

"Does it mean good?"  
"It does.", he seemed mischievous and dark.

"What about... - he run his tongue on the teeth, swallowing slightly, hoping Francis not to see his shivers - ...going out there, just the two of us?"

Francis breathed in.

"What about Al?"

"He won't mind."

Francis seemed wavering and hesitant, like an animal seeing a stranger offering him food

"I see...", mumbled, looking quickly at Alfred, who, innocently, was more interested in speaking with Kiku than defending his territory.

He didn't understand.

Really he wasn't scared of losing him? Not even looking, not even wondering.

Francis felt like he got trapped in the net of games of two unsatisfied lovers. And it was frustrating.

But the empty resistance, the beautiful trigger, those eyes green like Envy and Absinthe were stronger.

* * *

"God, God, there! The-"

His foot arched, while a spasm, like an electric shock, run through his muscles. He felt his body tightening, Francis sinking in him, stabbing his body with his thrusts.

Without noticing, he started to founder his nails into Francis' back, scratching.

He heard the French roar. Then he bit his back as revenge.

Feeling his flesh getting hot and harder under the teeth, Arthur let out a deep, ripped, moan of pleasure.

Francis held his wrists, thrusting more violently, sublimely inside.

Arthur's legs quivered, then felt scorching and weak, like without bones, while Francis made him climax, with a strong movement of his hips. Arthur stuttered, panting.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the heat of the air between them.

Francis came right after, but didn't fall near him.

Not that time.

Arthur smiled, forcedly, tentative. Francis showed him his coldest fake smirk.

And Arthur felt like dying.

What was wrong?

"Can I shower? I'll go right after."

Well, synthetic...

"Help yourself.", Arthur moaned, turning and sinking his face in the pillow.

As Francis stood up, the English boy continued, feeling the urge to add something.

He didn't want to seem pathetically disappointed, but.

But.

"Where did all the 'what's more intimate than sex' thing go? If something is pissing you off, you should say it. Not that I care, obviously, but you are annoying with that look between a beautiful and damned and an hangdog."

Francis caressed his own hair, ruffling it and curling it up with the fingers.

"I am not pissed off, I am just avoiding involvements..."

"Pft. - Arthur stole a cigarette from Francis' trousers on the floor - French people, always the same: _l'amour, l'amour, l'amour_. But you mean just the _Queue_, isn't it?"

Francis blinked in surprise.

"You know, your accent is terrible."

"Go to hell."

"Where did you learn French?"

"Kindergarten. Nuns."

Francis chocked a laugh, "A punk in a catholic school?"

"Believe it or not, at four years old, I hadn't all my piercings."

"That's a shame. - he smiled, wicked, and run his hand through Arthur's hair - You would be nice even in a suit, but I confess this look is kind of arousing."

Arthur puffed, hiding a flattered, flustered expression.

"Anyway, I don't like it."

"You repeat it quite too much for being the truth. - he laughed softly - And when the good little boy Arthur go to the bad?"

He seemed annoyed, "Wasn't you avoiding involvements?"

"We are just talking..."

"Why are you in London?"

Francis seemed a little embarrassed, "You could say I am here for nothing and for everything, it depends."

"On what?"

"On how much passion is for you."

"Did you come here for sex tourism?", he frowned.

"No. - he groaned, slightly offended - I am a... sort of painter. So, I came here to draw and paint something new. To find something."

"Oh... - Arthur grinned - So you admit London is better than Paris, isn't it?"

"Absolutely_non_, actually London is so dull and grey... but."

"But?"

Francis swallowed.

"Nevermind."

_In France, there is no such pure green eyes._

There is no Arthur in France.

Oh, here he goes again, falling for the wrong one. Was it a curse?

"Arthur..."

"Yes?"

"...and Al?"

The Londoner bit his lips, trying to search the right words.

"He won't mind."

* * *

Punk rock music was not exactly Francis' idea of Music.

He loved, slow, sensual, almost whispered songs. And female voices.

And a lot of things punk was not.

But Arthur was beautiful. Terribly perfect.

As he was on the stage, all his flaws seemed to disappear into the nebula of his charisma. He had the same expression in bed: like he wanted everything and was ready to do anything to obtain what he wanted. Anything but saying the truth.

Singing or moaning, it was the same, that boy was never sincere.

And the only pure thing in him was his glance, like the whole universe belonged to him. And that desperate hunger for something Francis was not able to understand.

But looking at Arthur on the stage, Francis was not sure if he was lucky or just miserable.

And how deeply the cut would have been? Reaching his heart and making it empty?

He was really falling for a taken boy. Again.

He didn't want to.

But they had sex practically every night and after it, almighty God, after the dirtiest and most wonderfully exhausting sex of his life, they talked. A lot. About everything: music, art, what makes a sandwich perfect, soccer, once even about boobs. Really.

And he liked both Arthurs: the naughty and the innocent one. Them both, the same way.

Francis loved his "I'm coming" exactly like his "git" or his tender pitch when talking about his granny.

He was a foolish losing game.

A candy-coated hangman's knot.

He was taken. Shit.

But what kind of relationship is one when you always cheat and outside look like friends? He never even saw them kissing. Maybe Alfred was still in the closet...

But again, even unfaithfulness had a limit.

He knew he should have left him before everything became unbearable and undeniable.

But.

What if it was already too late?

He was so lost in his own thoughts, it took a moment for him to notice the band finished its song and the keyboardist was next him. He was a slim, short, Asian boy - presumably Japanese - the "Kiku" Arthur often talked about.. He seemed the most normal in the group, probably the only one still wanting to graduate.

He smiled to the bartender, "John, two beers, a diet mountain dew and... - he bit his lips, thinking - For Al something a little less hard than usual."

The man smiled, "Still babysitting him?"

Kiku blushed, nervously, "This sounds inappropriate..."

"You always fall for the simpletons, don't you?"

"Don't make insinuations, please."

Francis interrupted, "Can I have a midori mimosa...?"

"Are you trying to make a hit with our Kiku? - Johnny laughed - He is madly in love with another guy, sorry."

"I am not madly in love with anyone!", the Japanese boy complained.

The bartender nodded, sarcastically "Sure... and unicorns exist... Oh! Do you remember that time Arthur was so drunk he started to speak alone with unicorns?"

"Don't tell it too loud or he will kill us..."

Francis smirked, "But, _mon petit_, are you in love or not? Because, if you are heart-free and interested..."

Kiku blinked, then smiled, with a knowing sparkle in the eyes, "Oh, but it's not me the one who's not heart-free."

"...you recognized me."

"You are not the type who passes unnoticed.", he explained.

Francis felt caught red-handed.

"Listen, this thing is not even a thing, there is no need to tell Al about..."

Kiku seemed perplexed.

"Why should I tell Al?"

"Well, because..."

"Why don't you tell Arthur about your feelings, instead? Lies are unhealthy for the soul."

"A punk boy outside and a wise old man inside?"

Kiku laughed a little, "I am not good at practising what I preach."

"Is it anyone?"

"But. - he smiled - Someone between you and Arthur should really start to tell the truth, one day or another."

"If it ends badly, can I have your number?"

"I will consider it."

"...it means 'no'."

Kiku nodded with the head, bringing away what Johnny gave him. Francis gave a sigh, smiling.

Oh, yes.

Living was really complicated. And he didn't want to be a boy stealer.

"...where is my midori mimosa, by the way?"

* * *

"I will return to Paris, tomorrow."

Arthur widened his eyes.

"W-what?"

Francis smiled, extinguishing his cigarette. The blankets seemed colder.

"Yes, it will be better."

"Oh..."

Arthur knew he should have said something. And stop him.

"Did you get tired of drawing London?"

"No... I just think I am sick of not being able to capture it."

Arthur laughed, sharply, his teeth seemed sinister, "Oh well, you must be really a bad painter, then."

"Untalented, probably.", Francis sounded sad.

And Arthur didn't expect that answer.

"Fuck you.", he whispered, just to reply something and break the silence.

"_Tout ou rien_. All or nothing. I am like that."

Arthur sniffed, biting his lips.

He didn't know what to say.

Was he really going? And why?

Wasn't easier for them not being anything more than lovers? Wasn't the lie about Alfred a protection for both? Or was it just his lame excuse not to admit he was ashamed of himself?

And anyway if he was going away, there was no way to stop him.

It would've been pathetic to ask him to stay.

And why?

They didn't even say "I love you" once... no, wait, why did he noticed it?

He wasn't in love with Francis.

_No way._

He wasn't.

He was.

Arthur's green eyes became glum.

Green, like ivy holding onto a dream.

_All or Nothing_. And he won Nothing.

Like every time before.

And the funny thing is there was no one else to blame.

"Fuck you."

* * *

_The taste of your lips is loud._

_It lingers on my mouth._

_The sound of your touch is haunting._

_It tortures my memory._

_Come back._

_I can't call you out loud: it would be humiliating. But you know I want you back, don't you?_

_Why were you always here in the past and now, that I really want you, I can't seem to have you back?_

* * *

The English Summer was long.

Eventually, Alfred and Kiku started to understand playing video games was not exactly what they wanted to do the most with each other. Matthew found an adorable Ukraine girl who apparently never thought about him as invisible or low-profiled.

Arthur was... Arthur. Well, they say misery helps art, isn't it? And the band was doing well.

But he was even more Scrooge-ish and full of grudge.

Alfred laughed, at the table, "I think we should call the new song something like Explosion something or Boom Strike something else."

"...shit idea, as ever."

Alfred pouted, glaring, offended, "I bet Kiku likes it."

"We can contemplate it."

"See? He likes it!"

Arthur groaned, "You are not even good at understanding your boyfriend, git."

Kiku winced, "Where is Matthew?"

"Oh not again..."

Alfred stuck out his tongue, "Go to search him, while we make out."

Kiku reached a new shade of red humanity ever knew before. Arthur gave up and started to search his friend.

"We should put a micro chip in his ears, like with dogs..."

Then he saw him. In the crowd. Like an angel beneath neon light.

Beautiful and scary, like acid mixed with aphrodisiac.

"Fran..."

The man turned, curious. His eyes widened in surprise and embarrassment.

"Oh."

"Why are you here?"

"An Exhibition... - then he swallowed and admitted, unwilling - And... memories led me to the bar."

Arthur stared.

What was he supposed to say: I miss you, I loathe you, I love you, I don't even know how to put in words how stupid you make me feel and you are clearly dangerous, but I want you more than I ever wanted something in my life and...?

"...I see."

Fuck, he was a mess with words.

Francis smiled, almost with pity, "How is Alfred doing?"

"He is _with _Kiku now."

The French man came closer, "I'd like to say I'm sorry, but it would be a lie, so... are you okay?"

"I'm never okay.", he replied, bluntly.

No, that was not what he meant.

What to do? He wanted him back but he didn't want to get him back. He wanted to be loved but not to expose himself to... humiliation. Francis was clearly the type of person with too many lovers to even want to have just one.

Francis gave him a small ticket.

Arthur blinked.

"It's the... exhibition. If you want to."

"...pretty vacant?"

"It seemed a nice title.", he admitted.

Arthur cracked a sick, mocking smile, "I don't even know what you paint. - all those memories he didn't have - Every time I tried to peek at your notebook, you were so nervous and hid it, so I... I bet you paint something boring and stylish and snobbish like French countryside... maybe with vineyards and..."

He got nervous, his voice shattered.

"You."

He blinked. Francis avoided those eyes.

"Every painting, picture, sketch in the Exhibition is you. Around... - he bit his lips, smiling sadly and his eyes rolled to the ceiling - ... around four hundred portraits."

"Four hundred?"

"More or less."

Arthur laughed bitterly, "You are creepy."

"My love can be kind of scary, yes."

"Love, what a big word!", Arthur's voice sounded as green and sharp as his eyes.

But not cold.

It was warm.

Like a glass, close to break for a flame.

"A big word for four hundred portraits?", Francis came close, caressing the younger boy's hair.

He kissed him.

He taste like poison and honey, like lies and pleasure.

Arthur shivered, holding him and kissing him back. Deeply.

Francis bit his bottom lip and then, smirking, whispered in his ear, "I didn't dare to hope."

"Stop being so mawkish."

_The taste of your lips is loud._

_Louder than everything._

Arthur's eyes were green. And bright.


End file.
